


Consistency at 6:30

by homosuck



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosuck/pseuds/homosuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a certian type of limbo for the spirits of the unspoken, a couple going on and on again until the right words surface, one by one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consistency at 6:30

I like to believe things can change, but they don’t. There is the faint ticking in the room, where the faded light of sunset has cast long shadows across my floor. I’ve gotten used to this. I should be used to seeing this by now. I can’t cry this time. But never the less, I feel a hot tear slipping down my cheek. The clock beside my bedroom window slides its hand onto number after number, taking the time away as I watch the motionless being that lies before me. I blink when the hand sticks to its place in the middle of the clock again, and I sigh shakily. What was I thinking? That it would be different? The clock has stopped on half past 6 once more, and I close my eyes with hesitance. When I open them again, I am somewhere new, but old to me. I’ve seen it countless times now, but it still has that lick of shock in the first few seconds. 

There is no wet trail on my cheek now, and my clothes have become unsoiled from my previous activities. There is an ever present solid feeling of something pressed on my hip, and I do my best to ignore it. Maybe if I refuse to believe it is there, it will cease to exist. But the object stays, and I can feel It scrape against my skin with every lift of my leg. I walk almost automatically towards a dip in the open field I stand upon, my feet dragging at the toes. I don’t want to do this anymore. I wish I could just stop this entirely. 

As I reach the edge of the grassy hill that blocks my view of the field below, I try to stop my feet. When I feel myself continue moving, I know it’s no use. Instead I just close my eyes, and let my feet carry me where I have to go. I know what the surroundings look like anyways. I’ve memorized every corner of this place. 

Ahead of me, if my eyes were to open, I would see neat rows of houses lined up at the very far end of the grass. One of those houses is mine. I used to be curious why I always started walking form the opposite end of the field, but now I have come to notice it must be to make the events inevitable. And even now, if I close my eyes, I know he’ll still be there. My feet continue walking, and I feel a soft familiar wind brush past my face. It seems as though it comes in intervals, like it’s timed. Everything seems fake. Too perfect to be real. I walk without control down the small incline, and I know I’ll have to open my eyes too soon. The sun should be setting over the houses now, just grazing the prettily colored roofs and making the metal shine on the perfect and organized mailboxes. Everything should still be serene and sparkling before my closed eyelids, and everything will still be safe and calm. Peaceful, one would say, even beautiful. But I’ve been over this scene too many times over. It is no longer beautiful to me. I have reached the center of the field now, where my feet can walk on even ground. It is here that I am always stopped.

“Hello? Are you lost?” A soft voice comes to me from a short distance away, and I feel my eyes force themselves open. And I was correct. Everything is outstandingly the same, plain in its pretty camouflage as I take it in again. I try to look at everything but the boy in front of me, but his worried face pulls me back. He is the center of all attention, nothing else lives in the field, and nothing ever will. He is the constant. No matter what happens prior, I will always meet him, no matter if I run, or hide, or turn my face away from his. I know, because I have tried everything I could get away with. But he is always there. 

I attempt not to speak this time; it’s no use to warn him like I tried before. I’d rather be mute. The choked noises that come with an out of line response are much too odd for someone to react calmly to. They just make things scarier for him. Might as well make it a peaceful ending. Nothing is wrong, I lie to myself, struggling not to burst into tears again from the sight of him. But my mouth opens against my will anyway, and I make an odd gurgling noise of struggle before a sound like a tape recording comes from my mouth. It opens and shuts around words I do not wish to say. Being silent would have made this better. But that would complicate things, so it is not allowed. I speak instead.

“Oh no, I’m not lost. But I think you are. Do you remember anything Dennis?” I almost shudder at how sweet my own voice sounds. I want to tell him to run, get away from me, but there is no option of that in my mind. Only what is programmed. He looks at me, obviously puzzled. I want so desperately for him to say nothing, for his mind to be blank of memories for once. His bright green eyes swirl with thought, and I find myself again trying to hold back emotion. I keep my face straight, and my eyes trained on his. He suddenly nods, and looks as though something has just dawned on him. The memories seem to come back against my hopes.

“Ah, that’s right. The doctors said the medication would make me do this.” He smiled, and I choked. His face was so bright. So happy. His features lightened, and I knew what line must be coming next. “But I do remember you somehow. Isn’t it…” 

“Forrest.” I say suddenly, tricking my way out of the scheduled pause in my speech. I’ve only tricked it once before, and there’s no doubt the newly discovered glitch will be fixed. But it’s worth it. I just can’t stand the sound of my name coming from him again. “My name’s Forrest.” I say once more, before the program resumes, and I am unable to control myself anymore. The recording continues on like no interruption has occurred. “Quite correct Dennis. I’m so glad you remember me.” I feel sick. I am not at all glad he can remember me. The unwanted speaking continues. “We should get you back home now, don’t you think?” I feel my cheeks lift in a charming smile, and I hold my breath as he smiles back. “We’ll go back together,” the recording says, and he looks delighted. I only feel more nauseous. I can feel the digging of the object into my hip again, and I’m reminded of what happens when we reach our destination. My body continues to lag on, uncaring of my thoughts it seems, moving on it’s own.

My feet slide over the grass, and he walks surely in his step next to me. His blonde hair ruffles with the breeze, and I want so badly to look away. But something in my mind screams at me, tells me this may be the last time I see him. I try to tell myself it would be a relief to be rid of the boy next to me, but I want to keep him with me so desperately. The thought persists, and I cannot look away. I know he’ll be gone soon, but at least I get to see him while he’s here. And if continuity does indeed persist, I will see him again soon after. 

He turns to me, his pale face full of innocent energy and willingness. I dread what he can recall this time. That is the only thing response that varies. His ability to reach back and retrieve his own memories of me. He speaks of different scenes or things every time, but all of them relate back to a common subject. It’s like a new way of ripping my heart out every time. He eventually speaks as I knew he would, and I listen.

“I know who you are now,” he smiles, looking at me with those loving emerald eyes. “How silly of me,” he said, and his eyes trail down to where my hand was swinging freely at my side, swaying as we walked. He then did something he had never done before, and reached down, lacing his fingers with mine. The program so badly wanted to reject it that I could feel my hand shake with the effort. I like to think it was my own willpower that rendered it’s override useless., although the truth was, if I thought about it, Dennis was the only one changing things. He spoke again, his sugary voice floating out to me on the breeze. “You’re Forrest Berlin, 17 years old.” He turned to me, that same sweet smile on his face as he went on. My body was collapsing on itself as we neared the houses. My vain attempt at making the name unsaid was put to dust with his words. And still he went on. “A boy named Forrest, with the opposite color of the trees for his eyes. How ironic.” He laughs before continuing, but the sound is less happy to me and more like tinkling of broken glass. “You know, you don’t look at all like a Forrest to me.” He tilted his head to me, then glanced at the darkening blue sky above us. “You remind me more of the sky.” If tears were allowed in front of him, they would have already been shed. How dare he remember me again. 

I hold his hand as tight as fingers would allow, and notice we’re much closer to the house than I thought. Time was running out fast. Too fast. It was always too fast. The solid feeling at my hip reminds me again of it’s presence as we near the door, and Dennis is silent again. I open the heavy wooden entrance for him, and he smiles at me before stepping inside. He lets go of my hand as he slips indoors, and I pause at the loss of the warm skin on mine. I try to remember what his fingers feel like at their loss, and I know I will never really feel them again. I slide my feet over the threshold, watching him as I close the door behind me. 

He walks slightly ahead of me, his hair glinting in the shunts of light from the blinded windows in the dark house. His eyes shine on those brief lines of illumination, and I catch myself admiring him again. I feel myself clear my throat, and he turns slightly towards me. 

“Yes?” he asks, and my hand moves in front of me without my permission, pointing to a worn green door to his left. 

“Let’s go in here, surely you remember your own bedroom?” The voice that has my tone but is not mine speaks to him like a child, and I see the very faint hurt in his eyes. 

“Well it is hard you know, I suppose I recall it a little.” He turns and opens the door, his body immediately outlined from the dimming light of the window. This is not his bedroom, which makes the whole memorizing matter seem less hopeless. It is my own room, and I have such precise recollection of it I know where each speck of dust lies on the window sill. I also know there is a clock sitting there, ticking away the time as it always does. As he enters the room, his face softens, and his eyes lose some luster. It usually happens when we reach this point. He turns to me, his eyes filled with a slight pain. 

“Forrest?” he asks, his voice very small in the room. The light from the window continues to grow darker as the sun recedes down the skyline. “I…” he pauses, and looks down to the floor. I can hear his breathing get less organized, and I know things are more escalated than before. “I think I remember something.”

“Yeah? What is it?” No. No, I do not want to hear it. Why do I have to hear it. My voice speaks on its own, and my controlled feet shift so I am near the bedside where he stands. The clock ticks softly, presenting me with the time. 

6:25

“I…I think I recognize this” he turns to look at me, and the prod of solidity at my hip worsens. It’s almost as if they’re reminding me of what I have to do. Like I don’t know what has to happen. Dennis speaks on. “It’s like, déjà vu almost, except…”

6:26

“Except what?” the voice says for me, and my arm bends to slip onto my left side, my fingers just grazing the blunt shape there. I can feel the handle’s cool texture burn my hands. The feeling still pricks my hip. He continues to look more terrified, and I know I’ve failed to soften the blow at all.

6:27

“Except,” his eyes look hurt, and I yearn to make them happy again. Why couldn’t he just be unknowing till the end. My hand grasps the handle now, and I can feel the yank that is not my own pull the tool from my jeans. Dennis’s gaze meets my own, and they’re full of tears at this moment, the liquid brimming over his lashes. He doesn’t focus on what my hand is doing, instead simply giving me the torture of unwavering eye contact. “Except, it was different.” I look at him with a new shock in my mind. This part is usually never different to me. He usually remembers it, then goes through the rational reasoning. Speech full of ‘But you wouldn’t ’and ‘That can’t be right’. Sometimes he asks me for an explanation, which I am not allowed to give, and sometimes he becomes silent all together, watching me as I do what is instructed of me next. But I have never heard this before. He comes closer before I can stop him, and my hand tenses on the handle of the weapon that has been rutting into my side. I wish with everything I have that he would stay as far away from me as possible, but instead he comes dangerously closer. 

6:28

“It was different,” he says again, and I can feel his soft hand brush my cheek. Tears have slid down his face by now, and my body struggles with the urge to wipe them away. But my hand stays on the handle of the weapon, my right hand rendered useless on my opposite side. Dennis suddenly smiles, his grin mixed with the wateriness of tears. “I remember it now. And it was different this time.” He leans close to me, and I feel invisible as soft lips brush my cheek very softly. He leans away, and I feel the tell tale adrenaline surge into my left shoulder. He looks at me with those so very loving green in his eyes, his smile quivering as he moves slightly back from me. “It was different, because I finally got to say-“

6:29

All at once, my left arm moves, slipping the kitchen knife from where it had dug into my side and burying it into the crying boy in front of me. The handle juts out from his chest, and his hand shivers in its place at my cheek. There is that same voice in my head screaming, screaming so loud I can’t hear any other thoughts. Screaming, retching in a course voice. ‘No, please no’. Over and over. His body slumps a little, but he still keeps his gentle hold on my face steady. He lets out a whispery groan of effort, and I can see blood trickle from his nose as he speaks again. One last time. 

“To say I love you.” He smiles, the edges of the expression wavering. “And I’m sorry.” His shoulder comes so close to me now it brushes my own. His body is deflating as scarlet pours from his mouth, staining his words red. “I’m so sorry.”

The ticking of the clock stops, and Dennis gives me one last wavery look of his teary eyes. I feel my own body loosen, and I soon regain control of my limbs. I stagger against the weight of a corpse.

SIlently, a tear slides down my face. It grazes the place where his lips had touched, and I close my eyes as calmly as I could. 

6:30

The heaviness of Dennis lifts away from me like mist, and the knife leaves my hand. I am no longer in the bedroom. I open my eyes this time, and I feel the digging of the knife against my side. Such a short amount of time. Why did it have to be this hard? Why couldn’t I just stop? My feet move forward on their own, and soon a boy is visible on the same grassy field as before. I cannot cry this time. It is not allowed. I may not speak out of line. I cannot touch. 

“Hello? Are you lost?” I open my mouth and close it again. Dennis stares at me, the same old worry in his eyes as before. My mouth opens itself again.

“Oh no, I’m not lost. But I think you are. Do you remember anything Dennis?” The same old unforgiving sun sets on the grass and the houses beyond, uncaring of what it’s descent dooms me to do. The time ticks on, rounding ever lower. Never stopping. Never varying.

I like to believe things can change, but they don’t.


End file.
